


Sleeping With James Bond

by dhampir72



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 5+1 Things, Blankets, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic, Established Relationship, James Bond is a blanket stealer, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Nightmares, Q just wants some sleep, Sexy Times, Sharing a Bed, Wounds, sharing is in quotes, sleeping habits, snoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:14:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhampir72/pseuds/dhampir72
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it’s like to sleep with James Bond.</p>
<p>(Or alternatively: five reasons why James Bond is one of the worst bed partners in the history of the world and the one reason Q keeps him around anyway.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleeping With James Bond

**Author's Note:**

> I know I should be finishing my other work, but I wrote this like two months ago on Drive and I just wanted to post it because I think it's kind of cute.

 

**0\. Prologue**

 

James Bond is one of the worst bed partners in the history of the world.

 

This is not something that someone would learn after one night with the man. Usually his escapades of that nature are for only a short period of time, so no one would understand just how truly awful he is as sharing a bed with another human being. This knowledge only comes when one has had the experience of sleeping with James Bond for more than five consecutive days in a row.

 

It has been five _months_.

 

Q should want to end it for all the hassle Bond causes, but cannot find it within himself to do so. Because for all the things Q finds annoying--the things that drive him absolutely mad--he knows he suddenly cannot live without.  

 

Even if it comes with those sudden, frequent urges to strangle Bond with the nearest lamp cord.  

 

**1\. The Hours**

 

The first thing about sleeping with James Bond is that he is not always there.

 

When Bond is out on a mission, Q’s bed is very wide and spacious, but empty. He should be grateful for the reprieve, which allows him to turn about whenever he pleases and permits him access to all the (previously denied or hoarded) pillows and blankets. But after months of nighttime battles with Bond, the peaceful expanse of empty mattress seems dull and uninviting. Sometimes he hates it so much that he sleeps on the couch. But then he hates the pain in his neck and back and eventually goes back to the too-large mattress and tries to sleep without his inconsiderate partner. Q even tries to surround himself with pillows to make it seem as if Bond is there, and kicks off the blankets at random times in the night so his feet get cold and he has to begrudgingly sit up to pull the duvet over him again. But it is not the same, and on the nights when he is not overcome with exhaustion, Q stares at the ceiling for hours and curses Bond’s name for ruining him so thoroughly. It is as difficult to sleep without him as it is to sleep with him, perhaps the former even more so than the latter.

 

But when Bond is there, it is almost always a surprise. Sometimes, Q will return from a long stretch at MI6 and find Bond already sleeping in his bed, right down the middle, so that Q has to crawl over him and push him to one side in order to lie down. Other times, Q will go to bed alone and be woken by Bond breaking into his flat at some odd hour of the morning. As of late, the evening returns have been the most common. It is usually right when Q has finally fallen asleep after the bed-couch-and-then-back-to-bed scenario to get much-needed rest that he wakes to Bond sliding into bed with him.

 

“Just use the bloody key I made you,” Q grumbles one night, when Bond comes in through the window and toes off his shoes at the foot of the bed.

 

“Lost it,” Bond says, and slides under the duvet. He smells like sweat and dirt and gunpowder when he curls up behind Q. His hands immediately slide under Q’s pyjama shirt.

 

“Take a shower,” Q tells him.

 

“I will in the morning,” Bond replies, and begins to kiss the back of his neck.

 

“It _is_ the morning,” Q groans into his pillow, exasperated at being woken up at such an ungodly hour and entirely too exhausted from the past few days to give in to the lovely mouth at his nape.

 

“Are you saying I smell?” Bond asks, and bites in just the right place, with just the right amount of force to make Q shiver. The hand under his shirt slides up and Bond’s fingers pinch at his right nipple. Q is instantly hard.

 

“Yes,” Q says, but the word comes out breathy instead of defiant. Bond’s tongue slides around the shell of his ear and Q makes a quiet, yet undignified sound. It makes Bond go still behind him. Q can feel the length of a very interested cock pressed against his thigh.

 

“Come take a shower with me,” Bond says.

 

“I have to go to work in the morning,” Q replies. Bond rolls his hips against Q’s arse and, God, if he didn’t miss this. The warm length of Bond’s body feels nothing short of welcome against his back, especially after the long week without him. Bond’s mouth comes back to his neck, kissing gently down from his hairline to the bit of skin he can reach beneath the collar of Q’s nightshirt.  

 

“I missed you,” Bond says, then rolls his tongue up along Q’s spine, backtracking the way his lips had just come. Q shivers and suddenly does not care about the early hour or the fact that he has to be in to work first thing. All he does care about is the hot strip of wetness along his neck and Bond’s hand that brushes over his sternum before dipping lower, sweeping down over his ribs and abdomen.  

 

“No you didn’t,” Q says, as Bond’s fingers creep under the waistband of his pants.

 

“I did,” Bond insists, and he moves his hips again in such a way that Q’s breathing stutters at the feeling. Bond traces patterns on the hollow of his hipbone. Q’s previous sleepiness fades entirely away.

 

“Mmhmm,” Q says, not wanting to give in so easily; it would just encourage him. But Bond already knows he has won, that much is clear, when he drags a callused finger over the head of Q’s erection and it draws a whimper from his throat.

 

“Come take a shower with me,” Bond says again, a seductive purr in his ear.

 

Q gives in, because he always does and always will.

 

“Just don’t make it a habit,” Q warns him.

 

(And of course, Bond does.)

 

**2\. The Wounds**

 

Q is not squeamish.

 

He has hurt himself more times than he can count working on various hacks: everything from burns to lacerations. He sees injuries of the almost-amputation-of-limbs sort with alarming frequency in R&D, especially during the prototype stages of projects. And he works with the Double-Ohs, who are notorious for coming into Q-Division after a mission to return equipment (or remnants of equipment) while sporting gunshot and stab wounds. Because of this, Q does not get light-headed or nauseous at the sight of blood like some people. However, this does not mean that he likes it or gets off on it and it most certainly does not mean he wants to be jolted out of a dead sleep to be faced with it at some ungodly hour of the morning. But Q is fast learning that what he wants is irrelevant with Bond around. He might actually never get a good night’s sleep again.

 

“What,” Q says, awake from Bond’s gentle shake on his arm. He squints as the bedside light turns on and Bond’s blurry form comes into view. It sharpens when Q puts on his glasses. He then wishes that the sight before him is a nightmare and not real. Bond is shirtless and sitting on the edge of the mattress, his back to Q. It is a roadmap of bruises and bloody bandages that are in desperate need of changing. How Bond managed to fly home in such a state is beyond Q, but then he sees the half-empty bottle of scotch dangling from Bond’s right hand and understands. He touches Bond’s left wrist where it rests on his knee, glad that the other man does not flinch away from him. Q remembers how Bond used to react post-mission when they first started out: he did not want Q to know about the wounds and so he would not let him see them, often staying away for days at a time until he healed on his own. Now, Bond comes to Q without a second thought and bares it all for him to see, no longer trying to hide or shy away from Q’s hands. It is Bond’s silent way of trusting, asking for help, and Q is willing to give it no matter what the hour or how grim the injuries.

 

“Go lie down,” Q instructs, all traces of tiredness gone, and Bond obeys. As if on autopilot, he walks to the other side of the bed, puts his bottle of scotch down on the cabinet, and then lies down on the sheets with a weary sigh. Once he does this, Q gets out of bed and goes into the bathroom. There, he pulls out the MI6-issued first-aid kit, usually dispatched to first responders in the medical unit only, which he may or may not have nicked from inventory. It contains more than just the standard plasters and disinfectant, which has come in handy more times than Q can count. He takes the kit into the bedroom and puts it down onto the bed beside Bond, who is still awake, but staring at a fixed point on the wall, unseeing. He does not say anything when Q turns on the bedroom light, but his eyes close briefly when Q stops long enough to gently move his fingers through Bond’s short hair. He leans into the caress like a man starved for an affectionate touch, which makes sense, Q supposes, because Bond is a Double-Oh and more used to being shot at and stabbed and punched than he is treated tenderly. It took months for Bond to understand that a pleasant touch could not only mean the desire for sex, but intimacy of a different kind. But once his perception shifted, he changed, bit by bit, and he softened slightly around the edges; Q knows not a soul would believe him that James Bond likes  _cuddling_ , of all things

 

Q returns to the bathroom to scrub his hands as clean as he can with copious amounts of antibacterial soap. Afterwards, he returns to the bedroom and kneels down next to the bed. The hardwood hurts his knees, but Q is at eye-level with Bond, who now watches him instead of the wall. His eyes seem so alive and full of colour while the rest of him appears broken-down and grey. Q wants to ask what happened--the mission had had some bumps, but nothing of this calibre--but does not. Bond will bring it up if he wants to.

 

“Anything broken?” Q asks instead, snapping on a pair of latex gloves before he begins peeling away the old bandages on Bond’s chest.

 

“No,” Bond says. His voice comes out quiet, dull, and tired. Q glances at him worriedly for a second, but then quickly resumes his work. He does not want Bond to mistake his concern for pity.

 

“Internal bleeding?” Q continues.

 

“No,” Bond says again. Q looks hard at a deep wound on Bond’s left pectoral. It is sewed up crookedly and raised, puffed up with infection.

 

“What did you stitch yourself with? Dental floss?” Q asks, even though he does not have to. He knows that it was, but wants to hear Bond’s voice. All he gets is a noncommittal sound as a response, which Q supposes is better than nothing. As he cleans the cuts on Bond’s chest, Q begins to talk aloud, keeping his voice even and soft. He does not say anything of much importance, mostly talking about work and the little bit of office gossip that trickles down to Q Branch. It is not out of nervousness or the need to fill the silence, but because he knows that Bond likes to hear it. Bond told him that the first night he came home with a bashed-in face and asked Q to stitch it up for him. Ever since then, Q makes a point to do this when the situation arises.

 

The one-sided conversation lulls Bond into a half-doze. Q sees his eyelids fall heavily over his blue eyes, but not all the way shut in complete unconsciousness. Despite that, Q knows that Bond is very far away. He does not even flinch when Q is forced to remove some stitches and redo them. There is no reaction to the stinging alcohol swabs on his broken flesh. His breathing remains the same when Q gets up off the floor and joins him on the bed to survey the damage to his back. It takes some time before Bond is cleaned up in fresh bandages and with hopefully less-infected wounds than when he arrived. By that point, Q’s knees hurt and his eyes are itchy with tiredness and his throat is a little hoarse from talking. He ran out of things to say twenty minutes prior, so instead resorted to reciting coding commands and procedures aloud just to fill the quiet. Bond does not say another word until Q is back in bed on his side and the lights are all out, leaving them in complete darkness.

 

“Thank you,” he breathes into the pillow. Q smiles and slides a bit closer to him, but does not make to put his arm around Bond in fear of hurting him. Instead, he leans forward and presses his lips against a patch of uninjured skin on Bond’s shoulderblade. His flesh smells coppery with blood beneath a tang of disinfectant.

 

“Always,” Q says, and he means it. Bond reaches back for his hand, and Q lets him take it.

 

(The blood leaves stains no matter what product Q uses afterwards, so he makes a mental note to purchase new, darker sheets in the future.)

 

**3\. The Battle of the Duvet**

 

James Bond is a bloody thief.

 

Q came to this realisation very early on in their relationship, even before they began sleeping together. It started with small things: his favourite pen disappeared from the tray in his top desk drawer one day, which Q discovered a week later when Bond pulled it out of the interior pocket of his coat to make a note on something before a mission. (Bond had insisted that he was mistaken and never returned the pen, despite Q’s very clever and semi-dangerous attempts to get it back.) Then larger things, like the folder that went missing from Q’s desk which contained some titillating information about a gun smuggling ring in Columbia. (Q actually did get the folder back, but only after Bond’s convenient holiday in Bogota that concluded with a suntan and the decimation of said gun smuggling ring.) Now that they are sleeping together, the thievery is worse. (Much worse.) Not only is Bond stealing a few hours of uninterrupted sleep with his late-night entries and post-mission injuries, but also by depriving Q of the one thing that he hates going without.

 

“James Bond, I will _end_ you,” Q growls into his pillow, when he awakes, shivering, in the very early morning hours. It is the middle of winter and sleeting outside. Q can hear it pounding against the window. He is freezing.

 

“Hmm?” Bond says, going from asleep to awake in record time. Years working for MI6 have made him a light sleeper. Q should feel badly about waking Bond, who has just returned from a grueling ten-day long reconnaissance mission in the Ukraine and needs the sleep, but then Bond asks “What are you on about?” and Q wants to throttle him. Bond must sense this, because he starts to press light, somewhat-apologetic kisses against the back of Q’s neck _just the way_ Q likes it, but he sobers. Q is not about to become less angry about the situation that has become a common occurrence since Bond started sleeping over.

 

“Where the _hell_ is the _bloody duvet_?” Q asks, not caring if comes out like a snarl. Even when he searches with his foot, Q cannot find the thing, or the sheets, for that matter. Bond must have kicked them to the floor. His body trembles under Bond’s arm at the chilly temperature in the room. He is wearing only pants, having gone to bed toasty after a very thorough round of lovemaking that had him grinning foolishly as they fell asleep. Hours later, the only part of him that is not cold is his back, pressed against Bond’s unfairly warm chest. Meanwhile, his extremities are numb and his nose feels frozen and Q cannot figure out why the hell Bond cannot keep blankets on the bed to save his life.

 

“Dunno,” Bond replies with disinterest, snuggling against him further, as if in preparation to return to sleep. Just because Bond runs hotter than a furnace does not mean that Q does, not even by lying next to him. To retaliate, Q puts his bare foot against Bond’s shin and revels in the way that the other man flinches away. “The hell, Q? Put some socks on.”

 

“Wouldn’t have this problem if you’d keep the damn duvet on the bed,” Q says.

 

“‘s too hot,” Bond complains.

 

“It’s _freezing_ ,” Q replies, sliding his feet down to press the bottoms against the tops of Bond’s toes. Bond hisses in his ear, but does not pull away.

 

“Wear socks,” Bond says, as if that will solve everything.

 

“How about you don’t kick off the blankets?” Q asks, moving his foot again to search for some sort of warmth.

 

“Wearing socks is much easier,” Bond points out.

 

“It’s _my_ bed,” Q retorts.

 

“What does that mean?” Bond asks, and it comes out like he’s trying not to laugh. Q elbows him in the ribs and turns over beneath Bond’s arm. He immediately presses the cold tip of his nose against Bond’s throat just as he wedges his cold knee between Bond’s thighs. Even though it is dark and Q cannot see without his glasses, he knows that it affects Bond; he can feel the gooseflesh rise up on Bond’s sleep-warm skin.

 

“My bed, my rules,” Q says, moving his cold lips along the column of Bond’s neck, scraping his teeth lightly over his Adam’s apple. He then licks at the spot, feeling Bond swallow under his tongue. He’s awake now, so might as well enjoy it. With his forefinger and thumb, Q pinches at Bond’s nipple. It is either the icy temperature of his fingers or the bit of pain (or both) that makes Bond’s unclothed cock twitch in interest against Q’s hip. Well, at least Q has his attention.

 

“What are the rules, then?” Bond asks, voice low. His palm feels hot against Q’s chilled skin as they move down the length of his bare spine. Q manoeuvres himself on top of Bond, straddling him. With no light, Q estimates the spatial distance between them and hovers just a few millimetres shy of Bond’s mouth. He feels the other man breathing beneath him and the warmth of his fingertips digging into his hips. Bond’s hardening prick is a firm line of heat against Q’s and it takes a lot of effort to not rut against him like a desperate teenager. Fortunately, it only takes a few seconds for Q to clear his head; he’s on a mission, after all.    

 

“The rule is this,” Q begins, lips moving softly over Bond’s, before he aggressively nips at the lower one with almost enough force to make it bleed. Bond’s hips jerk against his and he starts pressing his fingers into Q’s sides hard enough to bruise. Q continues, and his voice does not waver in the slightest; it holds the same calm, no-nonsense tone that it does when he is guiding Double-Ohs through their missions and not taking any of their bullshit: “Drop that duvet off the bed one more time and you can spend every night of the foreseeable future on the sofa.”

 

Bond does not say anything in the span of a few breaths. When he does speak, Q hears the smirk in his voice:

 

“I always love a challenge.”

 

“Get out.”

 

Bond snaps the waistband of Q’s pants hard enough that it stings.

 

“You’re sexy when you’re angry.”

 

Q bites him, hard, on the collarbone. Bond takes that as encouragement and they have a very quarrelsome bout of rough intercourse that leaves them both bruised and sore the next morning, but rather satiated.

 

(It changes nothing, because the duvet keeps ending up in a tangled heap on the floor and after a few consecutive days of this, Q thinks Bond does it on purpose as an excuse to piss him off.)

 

**4\. The Nightmares**

 

There is no such thing as a quiet night’s sleep anymore.

 

Q is beginning to realise that sleeping with a Double-Oh is a lot less sleep and a lot more waking up at odd hours of the morning to deal with something most normal people do not have to experience. Sometimes the distractions are pleasantly diverting, while others are a bit more disturbing. The worst are the nights Bond falls deeply asleep and dreams. They are never pleasant things; Q learns this quickly within the first few weeks. Then he learns that there are two distinctive types of nightmares: the ones that leave Bond thrashing and violent and the ones that wake him suddenly, but quietly, and drive him out of bed and into the bottom of a bottle. The quiet ones are the worst, because sometimes Q does not wake with Bond and only comes to much later, when Bond is thoroughly drunk and sullen. Afterwards, Bond always distances himself and does not come round for a few days. Q could find him easily, but he knows that Bond does not want to be confronted and so he leaves him alone. Those days are always filled with anxiety and concern that Q cannot rid himself of, despite his best efforts. It is so bad that Q would rather have Bond beaten and bloody in his bed than having nightmares. Physical injuries he could stitch up and disinfect and numb with pain killers; the mental wounds are deeper and the ones he can do nothing about, not that Bond would let him even if he could.

 

It is the middle of February and stretching into their seventh month of this dysfunctional relationship when Bond has a terrible night. Q wakes as suddenly as if someone doused him in cold water and his heart is pounding so hard in his ears that he is momentarily deaf to everything else. He does not know what time it is, but it is the heart of winter dark in the room and Q can feel Bond breathing next to him. It is the beginning of one of the violent dreams; he can tell by the way Bond’s extremities are beginning to twitch unconsciously. Bond does not have these often, for which Q is glad. The last time, Bond had woken just in time to keep from breaking Q’s wrist. The memory is very clear in his mind, not only because of the fear Q had felt at being hurt in such a crippling way, but because Bond had looked so _terrified_ as he brushed Q’s errant tears away. Q still regrets his inability to have said something, _anything_ , as Bond guiltily dressed and left, flying off to Azerbaijan for two weeks on a voluntary mission, during which he did not contact Q or anyone in his branch for assistance. By the time he returned, the bruises on Q’s wrist had faded, but it took an enormous bit of persuasion to convince Bond to stay the night with him again.

 

Q knows now not to wake Bond, but to try to ease him out of the nightmare as naturally as possible. He sits up in bed and turns on the light, focusing on Bond’s blurry form on the mattress next to him. Bond’s legs are caught up in the sheet and the duvet is on the floor. Q gently untangles him. The one time they talked about Bond’s nightmares, he had admitted to dreaming of torture. Q does not want anything in the physical world to add any additional sensory stimulus.

 

That includes touching.

 

“James,” Q says, very, very softly. He is close to Bond’s ear, but not close enough to hover over him. Bond would feel it and react, as his body had been trained. Q knows now how far is a good distance away and keeps that between them, sitting on his hands to keep from giving into the impulse to touch the other man. Instead, Q talks, using the same tone he employs when speaking to Bond over the comms. It is calm and sure and what Q _knows_ can centre Bond in the middle of a taxing mission. He uses positive words-- _home, safe, England_ \--but with barely any intonation, knowing that the flatness of his voice is more soothing than the unpredictable rise and fall of normal speech. After what seems like hours, Bond’s body relaxes and stills. His breathing returns to normal, but he does not wake.

  
Meanwhile, Q’s body is still thrumming with adrenalin. He knows he will not sleep just yet, but turns out the light and lies down again. Although his bare feet are cold and he wants to take up the duvet from its place on the floor, Q does not, in fear of triggering Bond. He resolves to deal with the chill and settles down against the pillows. Even though Bond seems calmer, Q keeps a sliver of distance between them as a precaution. He listens to Bond’s breathing for a long while, matching his own breaths in time to ease himself down from his startled high. His lids are just beginning to fall shut when the nightmare tremors take hold of Bond once more.

 

“James,” Q says again, aching to touch him. “James, you’re alright.” He does not sit up again or turn on the light; instead, Q holds very still and talks to Bond as quietly as he can. “Whatever you’re seeing right now isn’t real. It’s just a dream. You’re home. You’re _safe_.” Despite the positive results from before, it does not seem to calm him this time.

 

“No...” Bond murmurs, and he tosses his head to the side, then back the other way. Q hears his hair slide against the pillow with each movement. “No...”

 

“Yes. It’s alright, James,” he says, and he uses a bit more force when he adds: “It’s just a dream.”

 

“Q...” His name comes out as a whisper at first, but then Bond says it over and over again, louder each time.

 

Q feels his muscles tense and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Bond has never called for him during a nightmare. Sometimes Vesper’s name slips out, or M’s, but never Q’s.  It is unsettling how _raw_ Bond’s voice sounds and Q does not want to know what he is dreaming. He can only imagine. At this point, he does not know if his voice will help or hinder, but cannot find any words despite his best intentions. Mercifully, something snaps and Bond sits up so suddenly that the bed jerks away from the wall. He is gasping for air in a way that sounds strained in his chest, like someone drowning or crying or both. With his poor vision, Q cannot see much of him beyond the line of his back. He wants to touch Bond, but fears that it will make him come undone. It is the first time Q has sensed Bond to be so _fragile_.

 

It is only when Bond’s breaths are not so ragged that Q ventures to make his presence known. He does not make any quick movements or try to get up. All he does is stare hard at the line he knows is Bond’s back and says:

 

“James.”

 

Q swears he hears him break.

 

He turns and then Bond’s hands are all over him, touching everywhere he can reach as if to assure himself that Q is _there_. It is too dark and Q cannot see his expression. All he can do is feel Bond above him: the pressing weight of his shivering body and the stuttering, half-sobbing breaths. Only after Bond assesses that he is real do the touches slowly become less desperate and more focused. He begins touching Q’s hair and face over and over again. The thumbs sweeping over his cheekbones tremble. Bond drops his head a bit and his nose nuzzles into Q’s hair. His hands move down and the palms come to rest on either side of his neck. He is counting the beats of his pulse; Q can feel his lips moving against his forehead. Then the hands leave him as Bond shifts to slide his arms up under Q’s shoulders and back in an embrace that crushes him between a heaving chest and the mattress. It is hard to breathe, but Q does not fight him. Bond needs this, whatever it is, and Q gives it to him.

 

After an eternity, Bond releases him, giving Q the chance to take in much-needed air. Bond does not completely move off of him, though, and Q wonders if it is because he wants to feel each breath that passes through his lungs. He knows he is right when Bond finally speaks.

 

“You’re alive,” Bond says, his voice rough and hoarse. He is propped up on his elbows to distribute his weight, hiding his face in the place between Q’s neck and shoulder. His hands go back to Q’s hair. His motions are much more gentle than before, now that the initial panic has worn off, but his body is tense and rigid against Q.

 

“Yes,” Q says, and raises his hands to touch Bond’s waist. The skin trembles and Q moves his arms up to hold onto him, fingers pressing lightly into the other man’s shoulder blades. “I’m here.”

 

“I...had a dream...” Bond tells him, and Q can hear his disorientation as he tries to separate the dream from reality. The fingers clench in his hair, but Q does not make to pull away. “You were...they were torturing you...”

 

“I’m right here,” Q says again to assure him. “I’m alright.”

 

“They killed you,” Bond continues, as if Q had not spoken. “They... before that, what they _did_...” A cold sweat breaks out on Bond’s skin; Q feels it beneath the pads of his fingers. “And then they killed you... right in front of me. I couldn’t... _I couldn’t_...” Q hears his throat closing on his words and the emotion in it makes his chest hurt. Bond’s guard is completely down; he is defenceless and vulnerable in a way that only Q is allowed to bear witness. The amount of trust Bond places in him is overwhelming. It is even more than when he is on a mission, following every order Q gives because Bond trusts him as his naturally as his own eyes and ears. Q should like it, because Bond does not give out such faith so easily. But he cannot. Q hates seeing him like this. It is like the day they met at the National Gallery, when Q saw the shell of a man: betrayed by the woman he thought he loved, shot down by someone he trusted, and then left for dead by the agency he sacrificed everything for, no longer wanted or thought useful. Things have improved since that day--since Skyfall--and the blue of Bond’s eyes is sometimes so bright that it is almost impossible to think of him as that same man, dull and grey. But sometimes, like on nights like tonight, he sees those old ghosts again, feels the hollowness that only true sorrow can carve out of a person. And Q does not know what he can do to fill it, to have that _light_ come back, but he tries.

 

And that is all he can do.

 

There are no words he can possibly say, so he moves his hands up over Bond’s damp shoulders, along his neck, skirts his fingers through short-cropped hair. Q repeats the actions, continuing each motion even after he feels Bond relax against him. It is only later, when Bond is on the cusp of sleep, that Q presses a kiss against his temple. There is something he wants to tell this obscenely irritating, yet terribly wonderful man, but he cannot, and probably never will.

 

(It’s just not their style, and that’s fine, as long as Bond knows, and Q thinks that he does, so that is enough.)

 

**5\. The Most Irritating Habit in the Entire Universe.**

 

Q wants to punch Bond in his (unfairly) handsome face.

 

It is three in the morning and Q wants nothing more than to just _sleep for the rest of his life_ but Bond has him in a death grip and will not let him move. And he is snoring right in Q’s ear. It is not a soft sort of snore that one might find slightly annoying, but bearable. No. It is loud enough that Q is surprised it does not wake the neighbours, or wake Bond, who is a notoriously light sleeper. He does not snore all the time; it is only after a hard mission when Bond needs at least twelve straight hours of rest that he gets like this. The fact that his nose has probably been broken more times than even Bond can count probably has something to do with the horrible sounds emanating from his lover.

 

“Please... let me get up...” Q groans into his pillow, trying to wriggle out from beneath Bond’s arm as he does so. It has been two hours now; Q is staring at the clock, wishing that he could sleep, as he, like Bond, has been awake for nearly a week. But Bond’s arm is like a steel bar that he cannot escape and when he moves, it only tightens around him.

 

“For fuck’s sake...” Q does not want to wake Bond up, but he does not have a choice. He needs to sleep, and soon. But Q is not careless: he recalls with perfect clarity where Bond’s wounds and bruises are, then aims at an uninjured area with his elbow. Bond’s snoring stutters for a moment at the attack, then it quiets entirely and his breaths come softly, still even with deep sleep. Q feels his body relax in relief, and in the silence, he immediately feels himself beginning to drift into blissful unconsciousness.

 

Then the snoring starts up again.

 

“Noooo...” Q whines, and tries to get away again. Bond stubbornly holds onto him, snuggling further against his back, nose in his hair, _mouth right next to his bloody ear_. It gets louder, if possible. Q pulls out the pillow from beneath his head and hides beneath it, but it does nothing to muffle the sound; he debates smothering Bond with it.   

 

(But he does not, because civilised society looks down on murdering one’s bed partner over such a thing, and spends the rest of the night awake, cursing Bond’s name, and adamantly resolving to buy anti-snore nose strips for Bond to use in the future.)

 

**+1. The Morning**

 

Bond does plenty of arsehole things that drive Q so mad he wants to toss the other man out on his ear, but then he always makes up for it somehow.

 

One morning it is breakfast in bed (a breakfast that Bond cooked himself and was actually quite delicious) and another morning it is a much-appreciated, definitely-needed-after-not-sleeping-a-wink-all-night massage. Sometimes Bond wakes him slowly: kisses his way across Q’s shoulders and neck, nuzzles his hair, his ear, whatever he can reach, like an over affectionate pet who knows he is absolutely adored. Other times, Bond wakes him quickly; there have been plenty of mornings Q has jerked awake, right at the edge of orgasm, to find Bond’s lips around his cock and those blue, _blue_ eyes looking up at him and, well, those are good mornings, too.

 

Today, Q is in for something new. It is a blend of the old favourites and something different, but what, he cannot say, because Q is hiding beneath the duvet to try and block out the morning light.

 

“We need some bloody curtains...” Q grumbles into the pillow. Bond chuckles behind him, and there is the soft press of warm lips against his shoulder. His stubble is short, but rough, electrifying even, and Q hums at the feeling. Q is running off maybe four hours of sleep and it might be too early to be horny, but goddamn if Bond does not have that effect on him. And, of course, Bond knows it, if the straying hand from his hip is anything to go by.

 

“Let’s go get some today,” Bond says, as his fingers dip beneath the waistband of Q’s pants. Q might have been shocked at the proposal, but Bond is teasing him, he knows, and he has learned that it is best not to rise to it if he can help it.

 

“Some of us have work to do,” Q replies, and his breath hitches when Bond does not immediately touch his cock, instead dragging one enticingly sharp nail along the dip of his hipbone.

 

“Take the day,” Bond suggests, as the tips of his fingers brush over the coarse hair very near, but still very far from Q’s prick.

 

“To go buy curtains,” Q says, not asks, because it sounds ridiculous coming from James Bond, one of MI6’s most deadly assassins.

 

“Yes, with me,” Bond says, and he stills his hand. Q mentally applauds himself for his self-control by not desperately moving his hips against the warm palm now resting beneath his navel.

 

“Strange, I thought you had a license to kill, not a license for interior decorating,” Q replies, and Bond laughs. It is a nice sound, first thing in the morning, when there is nothing else in the world but them.

 

“Green would look nice in here,” Bond asserts, and he is smiling, Q can hear it. He hides his own smile in his pillow, not wanting Bond to see. The man drives him mental. Bond still kicks off the covers in the middle of the night and comes home bleeding and sometimes wakes up screaming and he is adamant that he does not snore, so Q really cannot get any rest. But Q could not have it any other way, and Bond knows it and uses it to his advantage because he is the world’s biggest prat.

 

“Domesticity looks terrible on you, Bond,” Q says, and Bond bites down on his shoulder hard enough that it feels _good_.

 

“But green _wouldn’t_ be terrible in here,” Bond retorts, and his fingers begin wandering again. “It’ll give this room some colour.”

 

“That has to be the queerest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Q replies, and sucks in a breath when Bond’s thumb slides along his shaft. Bond bites at his ear, then sucks at the lobe, fucking it with his tongue so that Q shudders. His hand is rough and callused, but it takes him softly and slowly over the edge. It does not take long and there is a kind of gentleness in it that only lazy morning lovemaking can produce. Bond does not expect him to reciprocate, but Q does, because he wants nothing more than to see this infuriatingly gorgeous, understatedly kind man feel _good_.  And when it is over, it is like the aftermath of a war. The pillows are in disarray, some on the floor with the remnants of their clothes, and the sheets are damp and twisted around them. Bond kisses the top of his head, slides his knuckles down Q’s bare spine, and says:

 

“Thank you.”

 

“For what?” Q asks, even though he knows. He wants Bond to say it aloud, even if it is just once.

 

“Putting up with me,” Bond replies, takes a breath, then continues: “I know...I’m not easy to deal with.”

 

“No, you’re not,” Q agrees, and Bond pinches his arse, making him jump. He retaliates and bites at one of Bond’s available nipples, reveling in the way Bond jerks beneath him in surprise. Q drags his tongue over the raised nub, sucks at it briefly, and then admits: “Though I guess there are some perks...”

 

“Like what?” Bond asks, and Q does not have to look up to see his smirk as Bond rolls his hips up provocatively.

 

“Like being able to pick out appropriate curtain colour for this boring bedroom,” Q says, and props himself up on his elbow to grin down at Bond. “I do hope you’re prepared to hang a nice curtain rod to match the table lamps.”

 

Bond looks at him for a long moment and then laughs, and it is wholehearted and so wonderful to hear that Q joins in. It takes some time before they can stop, and when they do, Bond kisses him, morning breath be damned. They are in love, in a way, perhaps in a way that no one can understand, and perhaps in a way that neither of them will ever be able to put into words. Q is filled with a warm affection for Bond and the bed that they share, which has seen all sorts of battles the past few months: some that they have won and some that they have not. And Q thinks that all the sleepless nights are worth these mornings for as long as he can have them.

 


End file.
